


Talking to Plants Helps Them Grow

by ThaliaClio



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, Best Friends, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff without Plot, Four Letter Words, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Seriously the lightest possible amount of angst, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), crowley's best friend is the oldest tree on the planet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 12:04:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaliaClio/pseuds/ThaliaClio
Summary: Crowley has had a best friend for nearly 5000 years, and it isn't Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Methuselah
Comments: 27
Kudos: 262





	Talking to Plants Helps Them Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Content contains:  
> \- Long naps  
> \- Wine  
> \- Whining  
> \- Puns  
> \- A (Technically) Talking Tree  
> \- At Least 3 Cliches

He feels small. Small and safe. An unfamiliar feeling, that. _Safe._

Crowley is afraid, always. To varying degrees and severity depending on the situation -- but always, when Crowley looked in on his own head, always were his thoughts covered in the bitter veneer of fear. Of Heaven. Of Hell. Of being alone _(of losing Aziraphale)_. Of Armgeddon. Of being found out. Of being redeemed. Of falling again. If he thinks very hard, he’s probably still afraid.

But a breeze ruffles his hair, and he doesn’t much want to think about anything at all.

Crowley has never _lived_ in America, but he’s visited before. He’s made a point of visiting every strange corner of the world, and the normal ones too over the millenia. While he’d developed a particular fondness for Europe _(thi_ _s absolutely had nothing to do with Aziraphale usually being found somewhere in Europe, of course)_ , he liked seeing the more obscure bits of the world best. Post-Armageddidn’t, he finds himself wandering around the edges of the map again. 

He closes his eyes and _breathes_ , mouth slightly open and forked tongue flicking out. The air is cleaner here than anything he’s tasted in centuries. No oil or gas or sewage or people. He’s lived in England for a while now. Not nearly so long and consistently as Aziraphale, but he finds he keeps coming back for some inexplicable reason. _(The reason is plenty ‘plicable, but Crowley refused to ‘plic anything.)_

He tilts his head back and opens his eyes, taking in the blue sky and wispy white clouds, the far off sound of birds chirping and hawks screeching overhead. He tilts his head further back, hair scraping against bark, and stares up at the gnarled branches overhead.

He pats the gentle curve of a root, breaching the ground beside him. 

“Nearly as old as I am, eh?”

Methulesah quivers her ancient branches, more amused than offended. It’s been a very long time since anyone talked to her like they knew she was listening.

“Do you remember when you were a wee little sapling?” 

_Yes_ , a leaf twitch says. _I remember your hair used to be much longer then._

“I used to be taller than you, you know. Still older, though.”

 _Did you get any wiser?_ She asks, a leave drifting down to rest atop Crowley’s hair. 

He huffs out an amused breath, plucking the leaf and twirling it between his fingers. “Never was one to learn my lesson, me. Keep stumbling into the same pitfalls.”

_Still pining?_

Crowley laughs properly at that, and Methuselah feels her leaves get just a little more verdant with pride. 

“Puns, that’s new,” Crowley says. “Lovely humans, coming up with all sorts of little games for themselves.”

They stay silent for a while, relaxed in only the way old friends can be. 5,000 years old and Crowley is her only friend. 

_Then again_ , Methuselah thinks, _not many trees can say they have friends at all._

Crowley pats her root again, mind a million miles away.

 _Not that I don’t love the company_ , she says with a gentle rattle of her branches. _But what brings you to my shade? It’s been a century or two._

Crowley sighs and closes his eyes, taking off his sunglasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Methuselah’s uppermost branches twitch just a hair, just far enough to cast shade over Crowley’s now exposed eyes. A bit of the tension fades, creases on his forehead a little less deep.

“Did you know the world almost ended?”

She waits. There’s more, there must be -- the world is still here, she is still here, shading her only and oldest friend, and so there must be more.

“ _I_ almost ended the world,” he says softly. “Not that I wanted to, or was even properly trying. But I delivered the Antichrist and helped -- well, thought I did at any rate -- raise him. But then I helped stopped the end of the world, only I didn’t really do much there, either, other than stop time for a quick chat and spit fire at Heaven’s top brass, though that last one was really more about protecting _my_ world than the entire world.”

She keeps waiting.

“And now… it all just keeps turning. Nothing’s changed.”

There it is.

_Surely some things have changed._

Crowley shakes his head. “No. Still _pining_.”

A bird chirps out a laugh from her branches. _It_ ** _is_** _a good one, isn’t it?_

A breeze ruffles Crowley’s hair and stirs her leaves. They both wait, silent and patient. Time moves on, but she never does, not really. She grows and grows and watches the world turn and change. She knows the names of the trees around her and the old words for the granite beneath her, but they don’t know her. 

How could they? What other tree was so lucky to have befriended a demon who couldn’t imagine a world in which she had nothing to say to him? Crowley believed her real, and so she was. 

_You are my dearest friend,_ she says to him, letting a golden patch of sunlight warm his legs.

Crowley smiles, stretching luxuriously. “Tell me what I missed these last centuries.”

And she does. 

The sun fades and the night comes, and two ancient creatures share stories of wonder and woe and plant care.

\--

_14th Century_

Methuselah is not Methuselah yet. She is someone, yes, but what need has she for a name? There would be no one to speak it save for one being, and they always call her --

“Oi, you wee little sapling!” A shock of red pops up over a hill. A squirrel chitters out a surprised greeting, jumping from her upper branches onto her neighbors.

 _I’m taller than you_. 

They shake their head and grin, teeth sharper than the other humans she sometimes encounters. But then, they don’t have eyes like the snakes that slither through the brush either. Her friend is not human, but that’s better than fine to her -- after all, she’s not human either.

They still don’t reply, dropping onto their back, head nestled between her roots and closing their eyes. Their leather tunic is stained black and the braids in their hair are woven with flowers.

“I changed my name, you know.” they say suddenly. Eyes still closed and expression blank, but Methuselah-who-isn’t-named-yet can feel the exhaustion and dread seeping from their bones to her roots.

 _Oh?_ The rustling of her branches slows, evens out. A gentle hum instead of an excited chatter. _I don’t think I knew your name before_.

They don’t move for a long time. She would almost think them asleep if she couldn’t feel their anxiety. “It’s Crowley,” they say. 

_The crows bring me stories,_ she says. _Curious birds -- they love watching the humans. And teasing the bigger birds_.

They smile a bit at that, and some of the tension eases. A cloud covers the sun, and the light softens.

“D’you have a name?”

 _I don’t think wee little sapling suits me anymore_.

They smile properly at that, even huffing out a laugh. “No, you’re an old girl. Only getting older.” They crack and eye and peer at her trunk seriously before closing it and waving a hand. “You’re going to be the oldest tree in the world. Methuselah.”

For a moment even the breeze can’t rattle her leaves. Then the birds and squirrels in her branches explode with happy songs and cheerful chatter.

 _Oh, Crowley._ They blush horribly and the anxious tension is back in their bones, so Methuselah-who-is-named adds _that’s a strange name._

“Oldest human I ever met. Weird bugger, too.”

 _What a namesake_.

Crowley settles again, soothed by the banter and lack of thanks. She lets her branches shade their eyes when the sun peeks through the cloud again.

“Think I might take a nap here, yeah?” They say with a yawn. “Been a rough few decades and I think I could sleep a century or so away.”

Methuselah doesn’t ask, not yet. What is a century to the two of them after all? They’ll be ready to share when they’re ready to share.

Warm and watched over by their oldest friend, Crowley drifts .

_\--_

_19th Century_

He didn’t sleep so long this time. A decade or two, maybe. She has some new branches. The eggs nestled in her branches have started cracking; soon soft chirps will replace silence.

When he blinks awake, it’s spring.

He stretches and yawns, jaw open too wide to be quite human. He turns his head and looks down the hill at a stump that had been a tree when he fell asleep.

He sits and hangs his head, scratching at his scalp and dislodging some of the leaves that have bonded with his growing hair. 

“Industrial Revolution,” he offers suddenly. “They make machines now. Great big metal things. Makes their lives easier. Makes making things faster.” He breathes out, long and slow. “Makes killing each other easier, too.”

Her leaves rustle, a little sad and a lot understanding. She’s watched them -- the humans -- change and change but ultimately stay the same for nearly as long as Crowley.

“They… sometimes humans make demons look like angels.” He pauses. “Or angels like demons.” 

She thinks of the screams of her cousins, miles away. Of the whimpers of her kin, pieces carved into and out of them. 

She thinks of the tired, achey people wandering the grounds and planting tiny saplings. Of the gentle hikers who stare up at her and her neighbors in quiet awe.

 _Ineffable_.

\--

_Present_

_Stop yelling at them_ . A fallen twig lands with a soft _thunk_ on the top of Crowley’s head. _They’re barely sprouts._

Crowley scoffs and brushes the twig out of his hair. “Just trying to keep them in line. ‘Sides -- talking to plants is meant to help them grow better. Look at you!”

Branches stretch toward the moonlight, Methuselah preening under the compliment. She still drops another twig on him, though.

“Ow!” Crowley rubs at his eye. “That one hurt.”

 _We both know sticks and stones don’t hurt nearly so much as words_ , a verdant leaf drifts into his palm in apology all the same.

Crowley sighs and rubs the leaf between his thumb and forefinger. “Sthrpykndf,” he mutters.

 _I don’t have ears, Crowley_ , a creaking branch chides. _Enunciate please._ She heard him just fine, of course, but he needs to say it properly. She thinks Crowley has a bad habit of not saying most things properly. Particularly important things.

Crowley hunches further. “... ‘s therapy, kind of.”

Methuselah waits. 

The rest of his words come out in a rush. “I don’t really toss them in the garbage disposal. I plant them in St. James, mostly. Donate a few to the Botanical Garden if they need proper care.”

If she had lips, she’d smile.

“Don’t say it.”

 _How very_ **_kind_ ** _of you_ , a moth drifts from her trunk to land on Crowley’s knuckle. 

Crowley tries to fight a small smile but can’t quite keep the edges of his lips from turning up. 

“Kind is a four letter word,” he says, snide tone at odds with the serene expression on his face as he stares at the softly beating wings of the moth, turning his hand to let it crawl into his palm and up his wrist.

 _Not all four letter words are bad_ , a breeze ruffles the unstyled curls atop Crowley’s head and sends the moth drifting towards the horizon. 

Crowley watches the moth until it disappears, face unreadable. 

_You should tell him_.

Crowley sighs. “Why? I’ve got more than I ever thought I would…. More than I deserve, absolutely.”

 _Oh Crowley,_ her trunk groans, the despair radiating from him to her roots. 

“We’re already on Our Own Side,” he defends. “I don’t... “ He deflates, tilting his head back against the trunk. “I asked him to run away with me. All the way to Alpha Centauri, y’know -- when we thought the world was ending. Said no…. That he didn’t even like me.”

_He’s as big a liar as you are. Tell him._

“What if-- what if he doesn’t… feel the same?” Crowley asks, voice very small and, for the first time since she’s known him, very young. 

_You can take a very long nap with me until he realizes he’s wrong and comes to find you. And then I’ll drop a branch on him._

That startles a hearty laugh out of him. “Alright, you wee little sapling. I’ll take it under advisement.”

\--

“Did you mean it?” Crowley asks, lounging against the arm of the couch with a wine glass dangling, half-empty, from his hand.

“What?” Aziraphale responds, uncharacteristically inarticulate. He knows what Crowley is talking about, he thinks. But Crowley must know. Crowley knows already. He _must._

Crowley blinks at him from across the room, serpentine eyes fully dilated in the dark and cheeks flushed from alcohol. He looks pained, a little. Like make he didn’t mean to say that.

 _Oh no_ , Aziraphale thinks. _He doesn’t know_.

“Di-- tha-- do you r--” Crowley cuts himself off with a desperate groan, jerking upright and scrubbing at his eyes with one hand, keeping his face buried and clenching his wine glass in the other.

Aziraphale walks slowly over to the couch, sinking onto the cushion. He gives Crowley plenty of time to flinch or pull away, but he doesn’t move. If anything he freezes, muscles going tense. Aziraphale can’t even see him breathe. 

Aziraphale sets his glass on the table. Takes Crowley’s and sets it down too. Finally he tugs Crowley’s hand from his eyes and takes both in his own. 

“Crowley,” he breathes out, soft and too overcome to think of what words he will say but feeling the dam in his chest, thousands of years with cracks in the foundations, holding back his tongue burst at long last. “Oh, my dear boy.” 

He shifts one hand to cup Crowley’s cheek and strokes the sharp edge of it until he finally blinks open his eyes and looks at Aziraphale again. 

“I am sorry. For my cruel words. For the wasted time. I have loved you longer than all the kingdoms of the world have stood, and I will love you long after they have fallen.”

“Mrg,” Crowley manages, eyes glossy. One hand flails up to his own cheek, gripping desperately at Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale smiles at him, blinking back the water in his own eyes. 

\--

Time passes differently when you’re a tree, but even she knows it’s barely been a week when Crowley shows back up, a pale and soft man in tow.

 _Guess I don’t need to drop a branch on his head after all_ , she says with a shower of leaves and rustling laughter.

Aziraphale blinks and looks rapidly between her and Crowley. Crowley’s grin can only really be described as “shit-eating”. 

“Well,” Aziraphale starts slowly. “I suppose I should have seen this coming.”

Crowley sputters. “You should have known I meant a 5 thousand year old sentient tree when I said I wanted to introduce you to someone?”

Aziraphale turns back to him and smiles, reaching out with one hand to pat Crowley’s shoulder gently. “Yes.”

A squirrel chatters out a laugh from her branches. _I like him_.

Crowley sputter and blushes, but he’s smiling too. And he’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand.

“You’re quite beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale says, looking up at her in awe. 

She preens, just a little, rustling her branches and fluffing her leaves.

Crowley scoffs. 

_Don’t be jealous,_ **_my dear boy_ **. Her leaves rustle in the breeze, one drifting to land on Crowley’s forehead. He crosses his eyes trying to look at it, sunglasses gone for once, and a squirrel chitters out a laugh.

“You know all his secrets, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, coming forward slowly and hesitantly laying a hand on her trunk. 

She can feel a blessing settle in her roots and knows she’ll live to see the world end at least once more. 

“Thank you for being there for him when I couldn’t,” he whispers, voice inaudible even to Crowley -- but she doesn’t really have ears anyway, after all. 

_What else are friends for?_

**Author's Note:**

> Am I projecting? Probably. Do I care? Not at all.


End file.
